


Riddle Me This

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Stilinski is nobodies fool. Derek comes in to clear his name, and the Sheriff tries to solve the mystery of Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riddle Me This

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Argentum_ls for being a great beta reader, and not letting me get away without a conclusion.
> 
> After the most recent episodes there are some discrepancies in this story, but I plan to wait on revising until the rest of season 2 airs. Until then, I'll think of it as an AU.

Sheriff Stilinski was neck deep in paperwork, tying up the loose ends of the Beacon Hills killings. Katherine Argent’s body was laid out at the Coroner's. Adrian Harris had been escorted in to identify her, before the family claimed the body. Her necklace and other items were being tightly packaged into evidence. After finding Ms. Argent on the old Hale property everything started slotting into place.

Consequently their main suspect, Derek Hale, had been nominally cleared. They'd pulled his wanted status and taken him off the fugitive list. It was nice to be proven right on that count. For awhile now Stilinski'd had the nagging instinct he was looking in the wrong place by chasing Hale.

Though that would have been a lot easier to prove if Derek had just come in, instead of running. Kids these days, it was like a new wave of the anti-establishment. He couldn't blame them much. Teens and old women getting pepper-sprayed in the face didn't instill confidence in his profession. He wished more of his fellow cops saw that. They all went into the police force because they wanted to keep people safe. It made their job much harder when those people didn't trust them to protect them.

The rumor mongering reporters didn't help. He glowered at the radio in his office, which was see-sawing between glorifying and decrying his department for their investigation. One anchor in particular harped on the fact their Sheriff hadn’t caught anybody, but rather found the alleged killer already dead. In fact they wouldn't have found her at all, if it weren't for an anonymous tip.

“… We should all take a page from Killer Kate’s latest victim; defend yourself now, and call the police later. Thanks to you, sir or madam, a spree of terror in Beacon Hills has finally ended.”

Stilinski shut off the radio in irritation and rubbed a hand down his tired face.

Yes, they assumed that Ms. Argent had gone after another victim, and that victim had killed her in self defense. It was the easy answer and the Mayor wanted an easy answer. They would hang Katherine Argent's memory because it was convenient, and they wouldn't search for whoever killed her because no one cared. Oddly, not even her family wanted an investigation and that just added one more thing to Stilinski’s growing list of what didn't add up. He knew there was more to it all.

Like their crime scene.

The mayor insisted the debris they’d found (metal and glass fragments, burned leaves, and spots of blood) was just left overs from local kids making a ruckus. They liked to dare each other into the condemned place and pretend it was haunted. There was usually a pervasive odor or piss and beer around the house. The mess wasn’t aged enough though. The furniture had been smashed recently and the Forensics team on loan from the state had found a lot of bullet holes. They estimated .223 caliber, though no casings were left. Even without Ms. Argent’s body, it didn’t look like a juvenile camp out to Stilinski. It looked like a battle.

Yet that was all inconclusive, because someone had gone through the scene and covered their tracks. Someone very thorough, who knew exactly what the police would look for. There had been at least half a dozen people on the property since Ms. Argent's death, and more then one car, but they couldn't get tire tracks or a single boot print.

The Sheriff wasn't sure if whoever killed Ms. Argent had removed the evidence, or if Katherine had more accomplices still out there.

Then there were the Hales. Laura’s ashes sat unattended in the county morgue, Derek was still at large, and Peter Hale and his nurse had both turned up dead. Their bodies were found dumped outside the hospital together, Hale horribly burned all over again in some twisted mimicry of his first attack. What kind of person burned a catatonic alive, just to finish the job? There had to be a reason the Hales had been targeted six years ago, but the Sheriff didn’t know what. The more he looked at the case, the more complicated it became.

He wanted to keep the Forensics team, and have them test the scene for DNA, but the state wasn't willing to front the cost. They had a decent case against Argent and figured, Serial Killer gone, case closed. All they cared about was that she could be linked to all the killings. Though why she chose to eliminate accomplices now, after six years, was another question bothering the Sheriff.

To pursue it though, he'd have to send his own deputies out to sweep for finger prints, and he didn't have the man power to do that and process the shoplifters, car thefts and domestic disputes which made up his usual fare at work. Perhaps he'd take some of his own free time, when he could find it.

He was about ready to pack up for the night, and head home to his kid and a microwave dinner when a commotion at the front desk pulled him from his investigative stupor. Stilinski sighed and got up to see what the fuss was about this time. If it was another reporter come to badger details out of his deputies Stilinksi might just toss them out on their ears, PR be damned.

What he did not expect to see was Derek Hale, leaning on the front desk as if he were a concerned citizen, and not a recently wanted fugitive. Unbelievable. They'd been searching for this guy for weeks and now here he was, surrounded by deputies, all of them ordering Hale to put his hands in the air like a batch of angry chickens clucking at a self satisfied wolf who'd snuck into the hen house.

“Everybody calm down!” he hollered, throwing his voice across the lobby and effectively silencing the room. Stilinski pointed to his Under-Sheriff, “You, get him processed. The rest of you have jobs, and if you don't, then get one or go home,” he said.

The men and women of the Beacon Hills police whirled into action. Stilinski waited until his Under-Sheriff had Derek in hand and then trudged back to his office to call Stiles and tell him he'd be late for dinner again. He called Melissa McCall too, just in case, and she assured him Stiles was still at the hospital, and no, he hadn't drowned himself in a urinal, ingested any foreign objects, or set something on fire. Stilinski took that to mean it would be a good night, and he had one less thing to worry about.

An hour later, Derek was waiting in interrogation room three and the deputies had scrutinized the contents of his pockets down to the last detail, which was meager and unhelpful. All they'd found was a lighter, a twenty dollar bill, a car key, a strip of dried meat and a receipt for Pike’s Pub. It was paid in cash two days ago, and stamped with the same time Ms. Argent had died. For an alibi it would work.

Stilinski downed a cup of black coffee, grabbed Hale's effects and a note pad, and went in to seal up the loose end. Or so he hoped. Hale looked up when he entered the room, but didn't move from his seat and the Sheriff settled across from him at the table.

“Derek,” Stilinski greeted with exasperation. “Nice to see you again.”

Part of him was not expecting an answer. During Hale's first arrest he'd exercised his rights and remained dead silent for the twenty four hours they held him. This time though, Hale nodded at him.

“Sheriff Stilinksi,” he replied stiffly.

The Sheriff took a long look at Hale. The leather jacket, worn jeans and stubble, all painted him into the image of “rugged” that advertisers raised on billboards because they thought it made women swoon. Not that it had ever worked on his late wife. She used to say that a man should have beard, or not, but stubble was just lazy. Beyond that Stilinski saw something else. He saw a distrustful young man who'd grown, like a defiant weed, from barren ground. The strain around the eyes, and angry set to his mouth reminded the Sheriff of pool hustlers, brawlers and dangerous drifters.

Perhaps it was simply the weeks on the run. Being a fugitive wasn't easy, and Stilinski was more than a little miffed on behalf of his department at how well Hale done it. Catching him would have been a hell of a lot easier if Derek had used his credit card. His deputies thought Hale lived off squirrels in the woods or something, and looking at the man now, Stilinski could almost believe it.

It wasn't what he'd expected the young Hale to become. He remembered the family pretty well. They'd always been well off, if a boisterous lot. Plenty of extended family came in and out and they'd been well liked in town. Even if Laura and Derek hadn't liquidated the estate after the fire they still would have been wealthy. Stilinski had always hoped the pair went off and made a good life somewhere, but apparently not. That saddened him. They'd deserved better and Stilinski always felt helpless in the face of someone stuck in their own tragedy.

“So,” Stilinski started, mildly hopeful. “Are you feeling a bit more talkative this time?”

“I’ll answer some questions,” Derek replied solemnly.

“Do you mind if we record?” The Sheriff tapped the camcorder at the end of the table. Hale eyed it warily for a moment, then nodded his consent and Stilinski snapped it on. Then he uncapped his pen and asked,

“So, why did you decide to come in now. You know we've been looking for you for awhile.”

“No, the car chases and police dogs didn't give that away at all,” Derek replied sharply.

“Hey, don't get smart,” the Sheriff warned, pointing his pen with a frown. “I'm working on four hours of sleep and ten cups of coffee.”

“... It seemed the right time to clear my name,” Derek grudgingly offered, without apology.

“Since we got another prime suspect you mean,” Stilinsky added. “So, where were you at midnight, two days ago.”

“East side of town, getting a burger.”

“Uh huh. We found your receipt. That's pretty convenient timing.”

Derek said nothing and his scowl remained firmly in place.

“You don't happen to have some other receipts on you? Or know anyone at the pub who'd recognize you?” Stilinski tried, coaxing. More silence answered him and the Sheriff shifted his in seat, changing tactics.

“Okay, let's start at the beginning,” he said. “When did you first get to town?”

At that Derek finally talked. It was in short, near monosyllabic sentences, but he talked. He told Stilinski about coming to Beacon Hills looking for his sister, finding her body in the woods and trying to give her a burial on family ground. The Sheriff listened closely, putting pieces together as they went.

The last time he'd sat across this table from Hale, he’d been duly concerned about the body Derek buried. After the coroner ID’ed Laura though, he’d felt like a heel. Hale was new in town, had a dark past, and was a little odd. That was all the local kids (including his son) had needed to label the man a psychopath.

It was the same type of fear and rabid gossip that had made innocent old Mrs. Clacker into a witch when he was boy. Children used to tell each other that she'd cook you in a pot and eat you if you were caught in her garden. Of course climbing the garden wall had then become a challenge and Mrs. Clacker, who was ancient and arthritic, would get her house egged. The poor old woman probably died from harassment as much as rheumatism.

Now, he doubted that Hale was as innocent as Mrs. Clacker, but Derek also didn't fit the bill for their serial killer. Stilinski had known that for awhile. So whatever Hale was into, it was something else.

“What about February seventh?” he asked, as Derek wound down.

“The school break-in?” Hale clarified and Stilinski nodded, watching Derek's nostrils flare as he thought. He seemed prepared for the question though and admitted, “I went to the high-school, following a clue.”

“What clue?”

“Harris. My sister went looking for him, and I was looking for who killed her. I was attacked from behind and fell on the lawn somewhere. When I woke up the lot was empty, so I left. The next day I heard that I was wanted for murder on the radio.

“So you ran from police,” Stilinski finished. He was aiming for casual, but he was pretty sure his voice gave away just how stupid he thought that was.

“And from Kate.”

Stilinski dropped the chair he’d been casually leaning in, and snapped forward.

“Katherine Argent?” he asked. Derek nodded.

“You were a target?” The Sheriff pushed, and Derek nodded again. Stilinski slapped down his pen, feeling as hopelessly frustrated as when he'd weaned a confession out of Harris.

“You knew she was a murderer?” he asked.

“For six years,” Derek said calmly, as if discussing the weather.

“Six years. Jesus. Why didn’t you ever say anything? We’d have at least known it was arson and had a warrant for her.”

For the first time in the interview, Hale looked uncomfortable. He looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumbs in contemplative circles and eventually stood up. He turned to face the two way mirror, putting his back to the Sheriff. When he spoke his voice was hollow.

“I never told anyone, not even Laura. Because it was my fault.”

Stilinski stayed quiet, listening. Hale’s spine was straight, but it didn’t look like pride. Rather, like he was so used to walking through life ready for a fight, that he couldn’t unbend without breaking.

“Kate and I were dating, just before the fire,” Hale said softly, and Stilinski got a horrible sinking feeling his his chest. Ah hell, he had a pretty good idea where this was going.

“You never told anyone that either?” he asked, and Hale nodded.

“I was young, stupid, and in love. I made the mistake of trusting her, and told her about my family. How we were different.”

“Different?” Stilinski asked, shifting his face on his hand.

“Well, we weren’t exactly W.A.S.P material,” Derek replied with a dry smirk, and Stilinski hummed in thought, making a note on his pad. He didn’t fit into the old White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant niche either. He didn’t think anybody did these days and it seemed a pretty thin motivation for murder, but then, prejudice always was.

“So this was a hate crime?” The sheriff asked to be sure. It made sense. The Hale murders had the suspicious stink of genocide.

“Something like that,” Hale answered. “Two weeks after I told Kate, she had my house burned down with my family locked inside. The Argent’s aren’t known for tolerance.” He looked at Stilinski’s reflection in the mirror and added in the stilted tone of someone repeating a quote. “To them, I'm just another dumb animal.”

Stilinski was pretty sure if his heart sank anymore he could trade it in for a bar bell. “Ah, crap,” he mumbled to himself, hiding his words in the palm of his hand so Derek wouldn't hear. Hale turned slightly and looked at the Sheriff over his shoulder, his left eye twinkling wickedly in the harsh light of the room.

Stilinski sighed. He believed Derek, he did, but he also had the feeling that while Hale was telling the truth, he was only doing so now because it was to his advantage. Everything Derek had done was deliberate. Stilinski would bet his son a bucket of curly fires that there was nothing in Derek Hale's pockets they hadn't been meant to find.

The young man spoke in away designed to garner sympathy, as if he wanted make sure the police would be on his side in the future. Stilinski was alright with that. His department should be involved, it was their job, and he had plenty of sympathy to spare. Derek had gotten a crap deal in life. The Sheriff had a lot of sympathetic cases cross his desk though, and he never let it distract him from the facts.

“So, what were you doing at the animal clinic?”

“What?” Derek asked, going very still.

“Dr. Deaton was assaulted the night of the high-school break in.”

“And he accused me?” Derek asked, turning around and leaning against the mirror with his hands in his pockets. The picture of composure once again. Stilinski tapped his pen for a minute, watching Derek for a reaction, but Hale remained quiet and eventually he clarified.

“No, he didn't. In fact the good doctor hasn't accused anyone. He insists he can't remember a thing, not even how he got out to the school. We swept the clinic though, and found your prints on the doors, and examine room.”

Derek nodded, as if that was a satisfactory answer and Stilinski raised an eyebrow, wondering what excuse he was going to hear to clear this one up.

“I went to the clinic earlier that night. I was looking for a photo, something my sister mentioned. A deer with a symbol carved in its side.”

“So you broke in?” The sheriff finished, none too pleased. Derek stopped. Then he slowly shook his head.

“The door was open. I thought it was odd, but I was more interested in finding the photo. Whoever assaulted Deaton must have taken him already.”

“Uh, huh. What time was this?”

“About six o'clock.”

“Alright, I know I'm repeating' myself here, but why didn't you tell me this earlier when I asked you where you were that night?” Stilinski asked, rubbing his eyebrow to ward off exhaustion.

“I don't say what I don't have to,” Derek replied, and the Sheriff looked up, appalled at the blunt response.

“You realize that doesn't help me trust you, right?” Stilinski said, feeling like he was lecturing his easily distracted son on ethics, again. Derek said nothing and retreated into his usual silence. The Sheriff sighed, and made a note.

“Did you ever find the photo?” he asked, not looking up from his writing.

“No.”

“Did your sister tell you what she was looking for here?

“No. Is that all?” Derek asked brusquely.

“Just a couple more questions,” Stilinski said. “Do you know Lydia Martin?”

Hale frowned in thought and replied, “the girl attacked at the highschool? No.”

“But you do know my son,” Stilinski finished. Feeling like he was already on a short fuse from the circuitous interrogation, he dropped any pretense of the casual, professional Sheriff and let Derek Hale get a full look at the harassed, worried and protective father with a license to carry a gun. He wasn't going to accept a brush off to this question. He wanted to know what the hell this guy was doing around his kid. Derek frowned again, confused.

“Stiles?… he’s a friend of Scott's.”

Stilinski blinked. Not the answer he was expecting, and not as reassuring as he would have liked.

“How do you know Scott McCall?” he asked.

“He’s different, like me,” Derek said with a shrug.

“You can't tell me how he's 'different'?”

“It's not my place.”

“Uh huh. Was Scott ever a target of Kate's?” Stilinski asked, feeling his gut clench in fear at the thought. Scott was like one of his own. He'd been following Stiles around so long the Sheriff considered him an honorary Stilinski. He certainly dealt with enough juvenile behavior to be an honorary parent, and Melissa had needed the help since her divorce.

“He could have been a target,” Derek said slowly, and Stilinski could see him choosing his words carefully. “But, I tried to make sure that didn’t happen.”

“ _You_ tried, and again you felt no need to involve the police. You didn't think we should know, I should know, that my son's best friend could be a target for murder?”

“Yes.”

Stilinski slammed his pen down and stood up from the table, his chair making a harsh screech on the linolium. He paced into a corner to bleed off his anger and excess energy. Why did he try? Sometimes he didn't know. Maybe, when they'd finished up, he'd run this interview tape over to a state profiler. See if they could figure out Derek Hale's mind.

“Am I free to go?” Derek asked after awhile. Stilinski sighed and turned around.

“Yeah. With what we have now, we have to exonerate you, but I'm gonna lay down some ground rules.” He pointed a finger at Derek and the man narrowed his eyes, looking almost peevish. Stilinski charged ahead. “You do not play vigilante. No more running off to solve crimes on your own. You know something? then you come here and you tell an officer no matter how insignificant you think it is. In fact no running period, I'm gonna be checking up on you, so stay in town.”

“Anything else?” Derek gritted with strained patience. Stilinski paused. He wanted to add 'stay away from my kids, but he rather doubted that order would make a difference. Stiles and Scott were involving themselves anyways. He was gonna have a talk with those two soon. He tried anyway.

“I'd appreciate it if you left those two kids out of whatever you got going on,” he settled.

Derek was quiet for a moment, and then he said, very slowly “I don't want either of them to get hurt. Stiles means a lot to Scott.”

“And Scott means something to you?” The Sheriff crossed his arms with a frown.

“...My family is dead,” was Hale's only answer.

The Sheriff sighed, rubbing his head. He was too tired for this. He needed a hot meal and good night’s sleep before he played word games.

“Okay, we're done here. You can grab your stuff.” Stilinski released him with a tired voice. Hale nodded and turned away, yanking open the door with relish. When he was just about to disappear into the lobby, Stilinski said “Derek. I am sorry about your family.”

Hale stopped in the doorway, his shoulders rigid. Despite everything that Hale had done, and the mockery he'd made of the Sheriff's department, Stilinski still felt bad for him. He seemed like such a damaged young man, and Stilinski never wanted to be the kind of person who stood by and did nothing, or condemned someone without a second chance, when he could have helped. So he added, very softly. “I'm glad you survived.”

Hale turned and for a moment looked completely bewildered. Then he nodded stiffly and left. The Sheriff stood in the interrogation room, a pale halogen bulb his only company, feeling at loose ends. The interview hadn't answered much, not nearly as much as he'd hoped. Eventually he gathered up his notes, and the video tape and drifted into his office. Someone had left a fresh, steaming cup of coffee on his desk and Stilisnki gave it a weary smile, privately wishing it was whiskey.

He pulled open his file cabinet, intending to pull the Hale files and added his interview notes, but instead he ended up looking over case reports for the hundredth time. He pulled out a large, wrinkled pair of photos; copies they’d taken from the video store security camera. One showed a large animal lumbering away on all fours, and the next, the figure of a human in it’s place. Over the past weeks the Sheriff had taken to staring at them when he was hard up for answers. Hoping that if he looked long enough they’d prompt some click in his brain and everything would make sense.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the answer to everything was in these photos, but he just kept missing the obvious. So he stared, and stared, and his coffee grew cold, and the images started to blur before his eyes, mocking him.

Then he noticed something. It wasn't the click he was hoping for, but still something. He blinked, to make sure that he wasn't seeing things, and no he wasn't. He measured the breadth of the shoulders, and the size of the hips if he cut out the flapping shadows as a coat. This was a man. That meant Katherine Argent didn't kill the video store clerk. Not if their witness reports were true and there had been only one attacker. If Kate had a partner, or even a rival who was killing at the same time she was... and all the kills but Laura's had been connected.

Suddenly galvanized the Sheriff grabbed his coat, and gun, and stuck the photos in his jacket pocket. He left his office, feeling fire was on his heals and grabbed one the squad cars from the department lot. He drove out of town, and up the winding road to the preserve. Each tree flashing by reminded him of another animal attack, another photo of a body with a claw marks in it's flesh. They'd never found a weapon that matched the murders. If this killer was still out there... Lydia Martin had been attacked on school grounds, and the doctor's said her wounds imitated of animal bites.

He turned off the road, his wheels spitting up dirt in a wave, and slammed to halt in front of the old Hale house. He stepped out, his feet crunching on soft mulch and leaves, and looked over the black, fire worn facade. He had missed something before, and he was sure now the answer lay here... somewhere. In this house which loomed over scenes of death, still holding onto it's secrets after six years. Stilinski stepped forward, cautiously keeping one hand on his gun, and looking for that missing clue.

If he hadn't been going slowly and watching so carefully he'd never have noticed the trip wire. Luckily he was saved from the embarrassing prospect of having to call his deputies in to rescue him. He froze when he felt a tension on his boot. His father's long dead warnings about hunting in the woods coming back to him, as if he was ten years old again. He looked down, and saw the long wire stretched over the ground, his eyes following it up to the release catch on a tree several feet away. Frowning, he stepped over the wire and went to investigate. He found five other traps spread around the house, not just trip wires, but some freshly dug pits, and a crossbow suspended in the arm of a tree. An ambush waiting to happen, but for who, by whom?

Stilinski wrote down serial numbers from the equipment as he walked, thinking. Some one had gone to a lot of trouble set this up. Perhaps the same people who'd covered up evidence in the scene of Katherine Argent's death. Now he wondered if that hadn't been an accomplice after all. Perhaps, it had been the second killer. He and Kate had met, fought, and Kate had died. The claw marks on Argent's neck were same as the other murders, and on Lydia Martin... but why?

Martin wasn't connected to anything. Had she simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and seen something she shouldn't? What the hell was going on in this town? it was like... like some kind of feud. He put his hand in his jacket, and fingered the second photo. The one of the giant animal. Then he looked around at the wires, and the bullet ridden door of the house. He felt like he was on the cusp of something, a moment away from an epiphany, when the radio on his shoulder crackled and a voice garbled over the line. The thought teasing his mind disappeared before it could form and he sighed, then pulled the radio up to his mouth.

“Ten-one,” he said, “can you repeat that?”

“The hospital just called Sheriff. Ms. Martin is awake.”

“Ten-four, I'll be right there,” he replied, very keen, and hurried back to his car. New thoughts of getting a lead on Martin's attacker raced through his tired brain. He spared one last look at the Hale house, then shook his head. It would have to wait, but he would be back.

When he reached the hospital the Sheriff's hopes were quickly dashed. Ms. Martin did remember her attacker, but only a little. He was a tall man, in a long black coat, a description which matched the photo sitting in his pocket, but didn't give him anything new to work with. He left feeling tired, and dispirited, allowing his son to stay under Melissa's watchful eye.

His plans to return to the Hale mystery were derailed after that, as his work quickly piled up. Current cases trumped one that the Mayor had declared cold, and done. In only a week Stilinski had an abusive father murdered in his car, a break out from the jail, a teenage fugitive, and a missing principle. The deaths only continued, and when he got the call about the mechanic and found Stiles there, he felt again that he was close to something, but couldn't grasp it.

The feeling only worsened when Stiles refused to confide in him. He didn't want to think Stiles was lying about finding the body, but he also knew Stiles was involved in something. Because both he and Scott were involved with Hale, and Derek had a bad track record of asking for help when he needed it. Nobody wanted help these days, and sometimes he felt like the whole town was against him... or that they all knew some terrible secret he wasn't privy too. On bad days it made him feel useless, like he was watching the people he loved drown with his career, and he was powerless to save them. He kept trying though, because he cared.

Someday, some one _would_ want his help and he would be there when they did, ready to aid. Until then all he could do was keep searching for answers.


End file.
